


The Voices of the People

by Ninjaterra



Series: Do You Hear the People Sing? [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: American Revolution, Angst, Gen, Revolutionary War, and internal monologue, based on the head canon that the nations can feel the emotions of their citizens, mostly just angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-13
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-11 19:20:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/802272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ninjaterra/pseuds/Ninjaterra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"America had forgotten the day when the feelings of the people had stopped being just annoying emotions in the back of his mind. He had forgotten the day that their thoughts had become his own. As he sat in a dark wooden chair in the back of a crowded room, watching as the other occupants of the room gathered around a large desk, he honestly couldn't remember the day that he had had to except that he had his own people to take care of now. This was his land, and he was no longer England’s little brother."</p>
<p>America doesn't want things to change.<br/>But sometimes people are just forced to grow up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Voices of the People

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, so a note before you read: In this story I'm using a headcanon where all the different nations that make up the U.K. are separate people, but then England stands to represent the group as a whole. So, in this fic he shall be referred to as England, Britain, and the British Empire. Just a bit of a heads up to avoid any confusion.

It started out as just a nagging thought somewhere in the very back of his mind. The idea had been simply an annoyance, really. For, no matter what way you looked at it, America loved England more than anything. He remembered quite clearly the day when the man had shown up on his shores, wind swept and worn looking, but grand and proud nonetheless. Instantly, America wanted to be just like him. There was so much power that the British Empire held, yet also so much compassion. The way he had held his young colony close, whispering gentle lullabies into America’s small ears had been proof of that fact. England had given America everything he had ever needed, and for a while, that was just fine. 

Until, one day, the doubt appeared.

Taxes. That was how it had started. The young colony could clearly hear muffled cries of outrage in the back of his mind as each act was added. The Sugar Act. The Stamp Act. With each new act came a new wave of exclamations. America groaned softly as he tried to block out the constant sound. He couldn't be angry at England. England was like his guardian. He was his protector and his teacher. He was the only thing he had. So, America forced the voices to the back of his conscience, hoping to banish the swell of harsh emotions toward his mentor that he knew were not his own. 

That wasn't the end of it, though. Next was the Boston Massacre. On that day, the voices had returned. Well, in truth, they had never really left, but America had forced them to stay far in the back of his mind, quieting but never quite silencing their constant hushed exclaims. However, that day the flood of anger crashed into his mind full force. It happened so suddenly that the colony was forced to squeeze his eyes shut and clench his teeth together sharply. For a moment, his mind swam with foreign voices.

“Stop this madness!”

“We aren't going to pay  
your damn taxes!”

“Go back to your own land,  
British scum!”

“Tell the king we’re not  
his slaves!” 

“Britain has betrayed us!”

The harsh words pounded in America’s mind, and the blond tried to vent some of the bubbling anger by swinging a kick at a near by chair. The piece of furniture clattered to the floor with a crash, bringing the colony back to his senses with a jolt. Sighing, America leaned up against a near by wall and rubbed a hand over his face. England would never do him wrong. America felt certain of this fact. He was sure that all this madness would die down soon. Then, everything could go back to the way it use to be. It would-

BANG!

America’s eyes snapped wide and he let out a gasp in surprise. The raging anger that had previously been the focus of his mind had suddenly changed into a new, darker feeling. Pure and utter fear. The shouts of outrages had turned into cries of panic. The feeling gripped at the young colony’s heart, filling him with a terror that he couldn't control. Looking down at his hands, America saw that he was shaking harshly. Taking a deep breath, the colony tried in vain to calm his nerves, but he couldn't block out the feelings of the fleeing citizens as the British soldiers fired into the crowd. 

Suddenly, the sound of a door opening came from the entrance way. 

“America?” a familiar voice called, causing the colony to jump in surprise. Blue eyes wide with foreign fear, the blond bolted down the hallway, away from the man who had just walked into the house. Racing into his room, America quickly slammed the door behind him and rested his back against the wood. With his heart pounding hard in his chest, the colony slid down against the door until he ended up in a fetal position on the floor. America could barely even hear his own heavy breathing over the echoing sounds of pandemonium in his head. Running. Screaming. Crying. Firing… The colony blinked a few times before shaking his head lightly. What was he doing? Here he was, sitting in his room, afraid of the one man he trusted the most. Trying his best to block out the deafening exclaims, America stood shakily to his feet. As the blond tried his best to calm himself down, the sound of footsteps could be heard approaching the door. “America? Are you in there?” England called, knocking lightly on the wood. Taking a final deep breath, America plastered a wide grin on his face and swung open the door.

“Yeah, I’m here. Whatcha need, bro?” the colony asked, smiling widely. The older blond man grumbled something about improper English to himself, but then glanced back up at America with a questioning look.

“I thought I heard the door slam. Is everything alright?” America nodded quickly.

“Of course, dude. Everything’s fine. I just shut the door a little harder than expected is all.” The colony laughed loudly, hoping the nation would buy the lie. 

“Oh. Well, that’s good,” England said, blinking his bright green eyes a few times before smiling in return. “For a moment, I thought you had been hurt or something.” At the British Empire’s words, America suddenly felt guilty for his previous thoughts. How could he have been scared of England? After all, it was only a few British soldiers that committed the attacks on his people. It’s not as if England had ordered them to do so. The colony felt the sudden urge to slap himself. He’s letting these feelings get to him too much. With another obnoxious laugh at the British nation’s words of concern, America silently vowed to ignore those voices from now on, no matter what.

The colony was too young to know that, as a nation, you can never, ever ignore the voices of your people.

XXX

America had forgotten the day when the feelings of the people had stopped being just annoying emotions in the back of his mind. He had forgotten the day that their thoughts had become his own. As he sat in a dark wooden chair in the back of a crowded room, watching as the other occupants of the room gathered around a large desk, he honestly couldn't remember the day that he had had to except that he had his own people to take care of now. This was his land, and he was no longer England’s little brother. 

“Mr. Jones,” one of the men in the room called, approaching the blond. America looked up from his musing to see Lyman Hall, a representative from Georgia, walking over to him. Sitting up a little straighter, the colony aimed a small smile at the man.

“What do ya need, Mr. Hall?” America questioned. Lyman nodded lightly in the direction of the rest of the group and made a small gesture with his hand.

“Everyone’s ready for you, sir,” the other man said simply. America nodded in reply and pushed himself into a standing position. Following Hall, he approached the group and ended up standing next to a man known as John Hancock. John handed the blond a quill and ink and inclined his head toward the paper sitting upon the desk.

“Well, Mr. Jones. This is it,” Hancock said. America made a soft noise of agreement as he dipped the borrowed quill into the ink. For once, all the men in the room were silent as they watched the colony slowly run the quill over the declaration. After a moment, America straightened up and the room’s other occupants gathered around the paper. There in the bottom left hand corner, written in large, loopy cursive, was a name: Alfred F. Jones.

XXX

The beginning of this story needs a bit of rephrasing, actually. No matter what way you looked at it, America loved Arthur Kirkland, the man who had raised him, more than anything. For, at a time like this, the new independent nation couldn't afford to love England. Not when it was time for war.


End file.
